


Venus

by zetuslapetus



Category: Good Girls (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24326608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zetuslapetus/pseuds/zetuslapetus
Summary: Beth finally gets her stuff back and confirmed-art-hoe!Rio gets the inspiration he's been dreaming about.
Relationships: Beth Boland/Rio
Comments: 12
Kudos: 119





	Venus

**Author's Note:**

> Rio is definitely an artist, first the art in the apartment then the comment from Mick, I mean come on. Anyone who disagrees is gonna catch these hands (mine). Also, the comparison of Beth to Venus is just too good - someone on here mentioned it in a fic, and it's been in my head ever since, whoever you are, this one's for you. Enjoy.

The charcoal in his grip melts across the textured paper with every stroke. The fine powder covers everything - his fingers, wrists, his forearm. There’s a distinct smudge in the shape of his palm where he’d rested his hand to perfect the shading on the hair. He pulls a line, blows the dust away, strokes the pad of his finger across the line to achieve a shadow. Then he repeats the action, again, and again until he feels a tiny squeeze at his shoulder. 

The instructor, an older black woman with soft lines around her mouth smiles down at him. 

“You’re too close, step back,” she gives his shoulder a tug, nudging him to follow her as she steps back. “Sometimes you have to step back to look at the big picture.”

He pauses, considers her then rises. His back muscles scream, and he wonders how long he’s been hunched over the easel. 

They both stand and quietly contemplate. The only noise in the room soft scratching from the other artists around them equally lost in their own world.

“This is very good,” she says with a smile. “Not very clean, but a good start.” 

He brings his forearm up and brushes at his brows, lets out a quiet huff.

“Who is she?” The woman asks and Rio shrugs then shakes his head.

Friday’s class is freestyle, they’re free to choose the medium and the muse. He hadn’t particularly given either much thought when he’d sat down at his easel tonight. He’d just picked up a stick of charcoal and started pulling lines until it came to life. 

“She looks like Venus,” the woman says with a smile, looks away from his easel, and points to a poster of the  _ Birth of Venus _ hanging by the door. 

She’s right. 

Same wavy hair, plump, nude body.

“Next time try newsprint instead of paper, a smoother surface means less mess,” she says with a kind smile and a pointed look to his hands.

She squeezes his arm once and then she’s gone.  Rio looks down at his stained hands and groans.

Two hours later he’s sitting at an empty picnic table, still scrubbing charcoal from his fingernails.  He’s about to pull his sleeve back to look at his watch when bright lights illuminate the dark alley and a familiar van pulls into the lot.  He squares his shoulders, wads up the dirty paper towel in his hand, and stuffs it into his pocket. 

Elizabeth stumbles out of the van with a black duffel bag in tow. She lets out a soft huff when she drops the bag with a loud thump on the table.

“That’s the full order,” she says and looks up at him. 

He’s staring, he knows. But the way the moonlight hits the side of her face he can almost see what the shade would look like on paper. 

He blinks out of his daydream, pulls the duffle bag closer, and zips it open.

She huffs again, annoyed. 

He counts her cut, pulls it out, and zips the bag up. 

“When are you going to give me my stuff back?” She blurts out. “If you even are,” she whispers the last part. 

He smiles, it annoys her more, he knows.

“You think you deserve it back?” He asks.

“Yes, I think - “

“Did you learn your lesson?” he says, cutting her off.

She doesn’t respond, just looks at him for a beat. He can see anger flash behind her eyes, and that’s it - that’s what he’ll never be able to translate to paper from memory, no matter how hard he tries. 

“We delivered Boomer, we’re printing more than ever, what else do you want?” She says quietly, trying to keep her tone level, he can tell. 

Her hair is wavy tonight, more than usual, lips red and plump. She’s wearing a black turtle neck and it clings to her body in a way turtlenecks just  _ shouldn’t _ . 

_ Venus _

He considers it, for a split-second, then words are coming out of his mouth, brain not quite there just yet.

“Let me draw you.”

He’s lost his mind.

She blinks, unsure she’d heard him right.

“Excuse me?”

_ Fuckin-a. _

He stands up, meets her gaze at eye level. “You want your stuff back?”

She nods without a word.

“You know the art studio across from the theater downtown?” 

She nods once more.

“Tomorrow at eleven, then you get your stuff back,” he says and pulls the duffle off the table with ease.

She sputters silently as she watches him leave.  He all but  _ runs _ , doesn’t dare to look back at her.

The following day he’s in the studio an hour before he needs to be. He sets up in the far corner of the room, in the best spot, the one nearest the window. The one with tons of natural light and sunshine. It’s late enough in the day that the sun is almost overhead so he won’t have to worry about harsh light beaming in. 

Elizabeth is early, clutching her purse and wearing a flowery top.

“So, you take art classes?” She asks with a raised brow, looking around the empty room. “How  _ do _ you fit this in your busy schedule of theft and racketeering?”

He takes a step closer to her, pulls the stool out to where he wants her to sit.

“There’s only one thief in this room, Elizabeth, and it ain’t me,” he says with a shit-eating grin and points to the stool. “Sit.”

She sits, drops her bag by her feet, and crosses her arms.

“Why me?” 

He shifts the easel slightly and looks up at her.

“Its a renaissance art class and you the only white lady I know,” he responds smoothly, unaffected. 

Its a half-lie, she's not the only one but she is the only one with the right shade of hair, pale skin, wide hips. The only one worthy of a renaissance recreation. 

She doesn’t respond, her cheeks pink slightly and he hides his smirk behind the easel. 

He returns to charcoal, again. It won’t do her justice, he won’t be able to catch the brightness of her blue eyes or the way the sunlight makes her hair glow; and he definitely won’t be able to capture the way color stains her cheeks.

They don’t have the time and he’s not sure that he’d let himself go that far _. _

He picks up the stick of charcoal, rolls it between his fingers then the lines are coming alive on the paper. He looks back to her, eyes dancing between her and the easel for a while. She’d dropped her arms to her lap, fingers folded so delicately on the top of her thighs. His gaze drops to her hands and he studies the soft fold of the skin around her fingers. She must notice because she rolls her shoulders, her fingers twitch slightly. 

She looks uncomfortable. 

_ Good _ . 

He smiles at the idea of making her squirm, licks his lips, and looks back up to her face. Her cheeks are pink but she hasn’t taken her eyes off of him. Brave Elizabeth.

He works fast, it almost feels like his hands don’t even belong to him anymore. They move on their own accord, possessed. He isn’t sure how much time passes, he thinks its probably the first time they’d spent together in silence, without Elizabeth running her mouth about something.

The harsh screech of his stool against the tile floor as he pushes away from the easel startles her. She gasps, and her lips part. He steps back from the easel and looks at the paper. He’s got a full bust outlined, hair shaded as good as he’s capable of shading. Fuckin’ charcoal, can’t control it. That’s why he keeps going back to it, keeps trying to perfect it. 

The hair is longer than Elizabeths, long enough to wrap around the shoulder but the way it curls around the face is all her. The straight nose, plump bottom lip, face shape - it’s  _ all _ her. He looks at Elizabeth, still perched, waiting. Her eyes are big, too round for the style but everything else is perfection. His eyes drop to her chest and he lets himself look, freely. Bites the smirk threatening to break out at the scene.

When he’s seated at the easel again he gives her another glance before he returns to the sketch.

“Relax your face, Elizabeth,” he scolds playfully.

“Why? You’re not even looking at my face,” she snaps back and he can’t help but chuckle. 

It doesn’t take him long after until he realizes he’s just sketching over lines already drawn, rubbing shadows he’s already perfected. 

He’s done. 

He drops the charcoal, grabs a rag to rub his fingers clean, and stands up. 

“Are you finished?” She asks looking at the rag. She doesn’t let him answer before she’s talking again. ‘Can - Can I see it?”

He nods and steps to the side, gives her room to come around.  She doesn’t say anything for a minute. She tilts her head to the side causing a curl to tumble off her shoulder and her mouth opens, then closes. 

“The hair’s too long,” she finally says. 

He chuckles, dryly, still wiping at his hands.

“It ain't a portrait of you, Elizabeth, just a likeness of _certain_ _assets_ ,” he says. 

Her eyes assess further, moving from the face down to the neck, eyes shifting over the long curls. Then her eyes settle on the chest, the bust is nude and too familiar. The shape of her breasts, the heavy swell of them, the placement of the nipples. He’d drawn it from memory.

She’s blushing again, then she’s looking at him, eyes sharp. 

“So, like a muse?” she says and smirks. 

He feels his eye twitch.

“Storage unit on Broadway and Gratiot,” he says, tone clipped. Then he’s handing her a pair of keys and she’s beaming. 

She grabs her purse off the floor and pauses before she leaves the room. 

“Oh - your next order will be early,” she says with a smile and turns on her heel.

He watches her leave, the lick of annoyance vanishing when he lays eyes on his sketch again. He steps back, all the way to the window, and stares at it for some time before he leaves.


End file.
